Death's Merriest Christmas
by Lord Onisyr
Summary: The stories of four different Christmases in different eras and circumstances; Christmases that were defining moments for Grell, William, Ronald, and Undertaker before they became reapers.
1. The party guest

**Death's Merriest Christmas**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This is a series of short scenes based on my background stories for the reapers; I'm sticking to four of them unless I get any sudden ideas. This is mostly my headcanon and nothing is based in canon.

**Part 1: The party guest**

**25 December, 1108**

**Yorkshire, England**

The moon was nigh full, giving John a better view of his family's vast fields and the dark woods surrounding it. He looked over the railing of the balcony to see a few servants collecting wood from the shed outside. They would be needing a lot, though the night was not that cold yet. John had stood out here for the past five minutes and was barely feeling a chill, but he prided himself on his heartiness. He spent an hour in the cold yesterday stalking a deer with father, last night's meal was the result of such stoutness. He was the son of knights of in service of kings, not soft nobles who would be perturbed by a breeze.

Already he could hear the bustle around the house as the guests arrived to the manor. Mother and father had a huge feast planned for Christmas; lords would be coming from across the county to take part in the finest meat and drink in the land. He was already dressed in his best blue tunic and cape. The future Earl of Tynell should stand out in such a party, being 12-years-old was but a trifle.

John looked over the horizon, seeing a few flickers through the trees. Travelers possibly, no, the flames were coming from bonfires and not torches. Judging by the positioning they were bonfires set by the nearby villagers; all of them hunters and light farmers, all of them still practicing their old religion. Their sacred winter holiday was a few nights back, apparently they were doing a little more celebrating. He could see a few dancing figures through a few shifting branches.

He was very familiar with these people. Most nobles would chase away or slaughter such "heathens," father however was a master at negotiation. These men and women were also trained warriors, they were better as allies than enemies. What religion they practiced meant nothing. Father and mother were devoted to Christ, but they were more wise to the world and understanding that a free ally is better than an oppressed ally.

A gust of wind blew over the balcony, sending his long brown hair into his face and a chill through the rest of him. It was time to get inside and enjoy the party. He walked through the double doors leading back to the manor, the warmth of the torches and fireplaces radiating off the stone walls and warming him instantly. He smoothed out his hair and his cape and walked down the stairs leading to the feast hall.

The chatter and laughter echoed through the halls. The closer he got the clearer he could hear a merry pipes and singing. He heard the happy giggles of his two younger sisters behind him, looking back to see their nurse leading them down the hallway by the hand.

"Let's go to a lovely party, John," little Miriam said jumping up and down.

"Mother's going to let us eat cake and sing songs," Mary chimed in.

"Want to have some cake John, it's almond cake with honey," Miriam added.

"Of course I'll have cake with you ladies," John said with a smile.

They clapped and fell alongside him, Miriam grabbing his hand as they walked to the doors. Two servants opened the doors and gave them bows. John could already see father and mother arm in arm and raising glasses of mead. Father was in his most festive burgundy outfit, mother in a long white dress with a fur collar. Father spotted them and smiled wide, motioning for them to come in. Mother pulled away and attended to the girls, father walked up to John and put an arm around his shoulder.

"Spirits are high tonight, my boy," he said. "The pheasants will be done soon, in the meantime go get yourself some cider."

"Yes, father," John said.

Father patted him on the back and he walked forward. John made his way to servants serving drinks across the room, avoiding some dancing lords with their ladies and occasionally being stopped by some well-wishers. He finally got that glass of cider and it was indeed delicious; pressed right at the manor that autumn.

The steaming pheasants came out on plates a short time later with bowls of cooked apples and turnips and beets with exotic spices. Pies and fruit were passed around as well. It was a legendary spread fit for Christmas and everyone enjoyed themselves fully. Bellies were filled with food and drink, guests growing more amusing the more they toasted to the holiday. Musicians took up pipe and lute and lords and ladies danced across the hall.

John worked the room, carrying on conversation after conversation. He was practically a man now, this year he had more schooling and more practice in swordsmanship. He took part in talk about business and philosophy, all his conversation partners spoke to him with the tone of an adult and not talking down to a boy. Yes John was the son of the earl and that demanded respect, but when he was told "You really are an astute man, my lord," it felt wonderful.

As the party continued, the more rowdy and jovial people became. Even father was laughing a bit louder and stumbling a bit, but maintaining some decorum. He was better off than a few of the guests; already people were leaning laying on benches or on the floor mumbling incoherently to themselves.

John got himself another glass of cider, probably his third; he wasn't interested in getting sick tonight. He walked over to a servant pouring drinks. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a man in blue and black clothing, more in the style of a merchant than a noble, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall clearly passed out from the drink. The man, a friend of father's probably, snorted a few times, but he was mostly still. John didn't think anything of it, he got his refill and the servant walked away.

John sipped his drink and glanced over to the man again. Standing beside him was a tall figure in black robes. John did a double-take; he hadn't seen a man in this manner of dress at the party. He paused and looked over, seeing the robed man staring at the drunken trader; one hand holding some type of magnifying glass over his eye, the other hand holding a book. Maybe he was a doctor, his patient did look a little worse for wear. John took a few steps to the side, then looked over at the robed man again from another angle.

Cradled in the crook of his arm was a staff, on further inspection it was a mowing scythe. John's blood ran cold, he clutched his glass and stared at the robed figure. The figure marked something in the book with a type of quill, then placed the book in his robes. John swore he saw a wisp of shadows collect the tome and it disappeared. He took a deep breath and walked a few steps closer; his imagination playing tricks on him of course. Maybe he could be of some assistance.

The robed man paused, then slowly turned his head over to John. John got a better look at the figure's curly blond hair and thin beard; his eyes a striking shade of green.

"Are you a doctor, sir?" John asked.

The man merely smiled and bowed his head, walking for the door.

"Merry Christmas to you, young lord," he said, walking toward the door.

John furrowed his brows, watching the figure walk from the room. He followed him for a few steps, then swore he blended with the shadows in the hallway. John practically sprinted back to the feast hall, walking over to the drunken trader. He lightly shook him, asking if he were well. No response, he shifted limply with the shaking.

"Is everything all right, boy?" father said behind him.

John looked at him, his father's smile relaxed.

"Dear me you look like you've seen the devil," father said.

John grabbed father's hand and pulled him aside, his heart pounding in his ears. This was not a matter for fear; he was a man of the house, he had every right to express concerns to the earl. John leaned in father's ear, brushing aside a few locks of his gray hair and quietly explained what he had seen. He wanted to keep the explanation to a concern over an unwanted guest, but his voice caught too much behind a tightness in his throat.

Father's jovial expression straightened to graveness. John pulled back, father staring at him.

"I swear to God father, I'm not mad," he said.

Father shook his head.

"No, John, you are not," father said. "I know what you saw."

Father walked right over to the merchant, feeling his wrist and putting a hand to his nose. He then shook his head and rose, summoning a few servants and giving them commands. Later the man was covered in a blanket, a few people walked out with him with bowed heads. The man had died right there.

John had seen the Grim Reaper that night. Father explained this to him later in his room. Reapers are the ones who send souls to God for their final judgment. But reapers cannot be seen unless they want to be seen, or if someone has a clear enough vision to see them.

"There is nothing to fear, son," father said. "They are gentle beings; stern, but there is a task they take with the utmost seriousness."

Father never explained how he knew of such things, but there were many things father knew that few did. Father was a wise man after all, one who didn't see the work of the Devil in everything. John always respected that about him.

The experience made for a few sleepless nights afterward, eventually he learned to accept it. Death was a part of life, death should not be feared. The Reaper was merely a man doing his job; he would come for them all someday, but such should not be a fearsome prospect.

The memory played in his mind twenty-five years later when the man in the black robe appeared before him. It stuck with him even more when he too took the black robes and Book of Death. It was a memory he gladly shared for the next few hundred years; the robes turned to suits, the glass evolved to spectacles, but the theme remained the same. As for the reaper he saw that night, they would be colleagues and friends for many centuries. Both of them would retire around the same time.

John settled in London, opening his own mortuary, and was more known as the Undertaker. The local children would come by sometimes for biscuits and a scary story. During the winter holidays he was fond of sharing the story of a young lad in medieval times who learned Death was but a party guest.


	2. Simple joys

**Death's Merriest Christmas**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

**Part 2: Simple joys**

**25 December, 1768**

**Essexshire, England**

Christmas was going to be a holiday for the family in Sutcliff house, the baron decreed it with jovial laughs. It had been a family Christmas when Baron Thomas' boys were young, now four of them were in their twenties with their own households. Only nine-year-old Grell remained, the only one who was too young to get away from father's drunken unpleasantness. Baron Thomas, however, died during the summer and his eldest son Matthew was the titleholder.

Baron Matthew had three small boys and he endeavored to make the manor a happy place for the family once again. The families would come together on this first Christmas, the declared to his kin. Something was added about honoring father's life by coming together as a family, though even Grell knew it was all pithy sentiment. There had been a lot of that since father died in his sleep.

With all Matthew's talk of family togetherness, Grell didn't question too much when told the unwrapping of presents would still take place in everyone's respective quarters. Matthew's three boys were younger than he, but acted twice their age…or rather like statues. They wouldn't be too much fun to open presents with, likely Matthew and his lady were giving them a couple books and having them recite the Bible. Mostly Grell wasn't looking forward to comparing or sharing any of his presents.

Christmas morning was spent in the nursery as usual; his own generously sized tree set up with golden balls and berry garland. Grell ran from his room to see the candles on the tree already lit; David the butler must have been here already. Mother was sitting in the red velvet couch by the tree in her nightgown, though her thick blonde hair was painstakingly braided. Ever the lady even on Christmas morning. Grell greeted his mother with a wide smile, then looked under the tree; catching sight of the small mount of wrapped presents.

He ran forward, mother got up from the couch and locked him in a hug he gladly returned.

"Merry Christmas, _liebschoen_," she said.

"Merry Christmas, mummy," he said. He pulled back a bit and smiled, standing up straight. "Or _Froeliche Weinachten_."

Mother laughed and hugged him a little tighter. He already could speak much German thanks to his tutor. He greatly wanted to be able to speak to mother in her native language.

Soon he was sitting under the tree, mother passing him gifts. It was a good year; he was losing interest in toys, but this was a nice collection for a young man. There were a few new coats, a few brooches perfect for parties, he got some new reins for his favorite pony. Mother saved the best gift for last; lifting it from a back corner of the tree and giving it to him with a huge smile. Grell carefully opened the small package, inside was a beautifully made violin perfect for his size. He had started playing since the summer, but the violin his brother Jacob used from lessons long abandoned was too big for him.

Grell held it in his hands for a while, then dragged the bow across the strings; lightly turning the pegs to tune it. Mother laughed and watched him play with a smile. She gave him some requests, he played to the best of his young ability; feeling like a master musician doing a solo in front of a queen.

Eventually play time had to end, David came by and said breakfast would be ready in a few hours. Grell decided to wear one of his new outfits; a bright burgundy suit with a white shirt ruffled at the cuffs and collar. Mother put his thick red hair in a ponytail, teasing up the crown a little for a bit more style. Mother put on a green dress and wore plenty of rubies; she looked oh so festive.

They went down to breakfast together, Matthew and Lady Charlotte greeting them in the study. Even the three boys seemed a little less stiff. They all ate a bountiful breakfast together. Grell chatted, sharing a few words with his young nephews. He realized now how good it felt to talk so freely in the dining room, how good it felt to actually experience the company of family.

More family came throughout the afternoon. His brother Jacob (an avowed bachelor) came by, though he disappeared in Matthew's study as usual. Every time Jacob came over it was all about business. Later in the afternoon his two other brothers came to the house. Elijah came in in his usual priest's cassock, a sprig of holly pinned to his collar; his wife and children followed close behind. Elijah's two stepchildren were older than Grell, yet they still played and chatted.

Oskar and his wife came in the house by the early evening. Oskar was actually wearing a suit and not his red Army uniform. Apparently he received some respite time for the holiday. His wife's belly greatly swollen with their little miracle. She even let Grell gently touch her stomach. Elijah and Oskar greeted Grell with hugs and a few gifts. How good it felt to have a few brothers who were so warm with him. Even Jacob and Matthew chatted with him when they returned to the party.

He loved having a family around. Before it was just he and mother in the nursery, the rest of the house always felt restricted to him. He was the child; that was it. Matthew was actually recognizing his presence now, before that he was just a little nuisance.

Then there was one person whose presence would be gone forever, one specter that made the hallways even more forbidding. Matthew did a toast to him at the beginning of dinner, everyone solemnly bowed their heads as proper. Father died six months ago, this was the first Christmas without him, though Grell never remembered a Christmas with him. It almost felt as if he were celebrating his first real Christmas.

Christmas this year was more than opening presents and playing with toys in the nursery. There was no encouragement to stay out of sight to avoid bothering father, there was no yelling and slamming in the hallway when father actually emerged from his quarters. There were no menacing glares for stepping out of the room. There would be no more yelling, no more axes waved in the face with malicious grins. One memory played in Grell's mind that he quickly shut out.

No, there would be none of that unpleasantness either. All there was now was singing and feasting, and presents. There were hugs and pats on the head and other children to play with. There was no father this year. As much of an ill thought it was Grell was actually happy because of it.

He didn't miss father; he was actually glad he was dead. These were not very nice thoughts but he didn't care. No one here missed father either. Despite everyone's toasts and occasional solemnity, no one was talking about him. No one was sharing any memories because there were no pleasant memories to share.

That one memory snuck past Grell's mental defenses again, this time he allowed it. He tried to shut it out, but it would play in his nightmares. He let himself remember the blood, the screaming, the sight of Geoffrey and Annette; the footman and mother's maid, their mutilated bodies strewn on the floor of their quarters, the way the blood pooled around them. That's what happened when father got too drunk and too angry.

That wouldn't happen again; father was dead, the servants were safe, but what had happened happened. Grell looked up from the bowl of chestnuts and watched David make the rounds pouring drinks. Grell allowed himself to imagine David's head dropping to the floor after an axe swipe; blood spilling all over the French rugs, spattering all over dresses and presents. He held back a smile and went back to snacking. The thought no longer scared him, it was a liberating feeling.

Eventually Grell got out his new violin and played a few carols he knew. Everyone sang along, Oskar sat at the piano and accompanied him. At the end he bowed, savoring the applause. This was a good Christmas indeed.

There would be more family Christmases, though after a while they lost their appeal. Seven years later Oskar was deployed to America to quell the rebels, mother's health was fading, Grell was growing into a young man. Grell spent that Christmas at boarding school and enjoyed himself even more. The year after that there would be no Christmas with mother or Oskar. Oskar was killed in battle that spring, mother died the week before Christmas.

Grell still enjoyed his holiday, by now he was by all rights an adult and could enjoy himself a bit more. He drank himself silly, then he bedded a few birds Jacob invited to the party; girls who were but tiny refreshments compared to the feast of lords back at school. He capped off the festive evening by smothering some old man who annoyed him; in the end everyone would just think the codger drank himself to death. That would be the last pleasant family Christmas.

He would return to the manor from business in London the next Christmas awaiting more fun, but he went home to find he was looked upon like a child. Christmas would end when he nearly throttled Matthew's eldest brat at the dinner table. There would be no more family Christmases for him after that, but it didn't matter. In the years that followed Grell would always find ways to enjoy the holiday, whether they were big feasts or small celebrations; whether they involved singing or stabbing, green holly to bright red blood.

Christmas became a more festive holiday when he passed from mortal life; the privilege to continue celebrating past death in his new immortal form as a reaper was one he savored. He usually volunteered to work that day; at first out of respect for his new privilege, then he realized how fun each holiday was with a bit of death. It wasn't an unpleasant thought as he assumed as a child; carols and lights went well with death rattles and blood.

The offices always had a feast available, boost employee morale and all that. Even the Undertaker would open his shop to working reapers for some wassail and carols. That old coot typically avoided anything to do with his old job, but every Christmas he actually welcomed other reapers in.

Eventually his coworkers stopped asking him why he always worked Christmas, some even told them they just needed to see him that day to know how jolly Christmas could be even whilst working. Grell Sutcliff just knew how to enjoy his holiday, that was all they needed to know.


	3. Christmas for a loyal crew

**Death's Merriest Christmas**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

**Part 3: Christmas for a loyal crew**

**25 December, 1770**

_**HMS Kensington**_**, Bay of Biscay**

The _Kensington _was supposed to make port at Plymouth by Christmas Eve, creating a rare opportunity for the men to actually be home for Christmas. "Home" for most meant home on the ship or at port, but at least they would be on English shores after a few months of basic patrols. That projection was voided the moment the ship drew near Portugal and locked into a churning mess. At the very least La Rochelle would be a nice place to dock for the holiday, but the _Kensington _wasn't that fortunate. The closer the ship drew to France, the further she was pulled into hell

A deluge was churning right into the bay, locking anything that entered into sheets of rain, wailing winds that snatched up all they could, waves the size of mountains, and lightening akin to fireballs that incinerated everything in sight. It was hours from daybreak and all hands had been called onto deck, men running around like rodents to pull lines and grab buckets too keep from weighing down the compartments. Staying upright was nigh impossible, but losing footing could mean being tossed like a rag doll into masts and cabins or sliding off the deck into the drink.

The winds wailed like pipe organs punctuated with deafening thunder with undertones of the screams and barks of a thousand men. From time to time William caught the sound of his own grunting as he pulled line after line; fighting against the friction of the wet hemp and pulleys. Blood was running down his hands from the fibers, but the pain from the cuts and the cold only kept him going. His heart raced, fire ran through his veins, he realized more and more he was trying to keep himself from smiling. They were all in serious trouble; through the din he caught a few words of The Lord's Prayer from a few different people, but he would rather spit in the face of every god, proper and heathen, than plead to them. This was the moment he had always been waiting for in all his fifteen years; the moment when he would show everything he had onboard a ship.

Grandpapa was fond of telling stories, papa tried to be a bit less boastful but occasionally some tidbits of his own adventures would slip out. William recalled papa was spending Christmas in London with a bevy of other captains; by this point he earned a little fraternizing after his twenty years of service to the crown. At home in Exeter, mum was likely holding a quiet celebration with his two sisters and sickly brother. His Japanese mother was just introduced to Christmas sixteen years ago, but she loved every bit of it. There were probably origami flowers and birds all over the tree, papa likely made a few of them during the time he was home thanks to her able tutelage. William pulled himself away from this warm thought. Let them enjoy a quiet holiday, Midshipman William Spears was exactly where he wanted to be.

Family influence got him a commission aboard the _Kensington _back in the spring just days after his fifteenth birthday. The sleeves of his blue coat barely covered his wrists thanks to a recent growth spurt, giving a few more openings for swinging lines and pelting rain but it was a trifle. His soaked ponytail whipped in his face with the wind, finally he managed to tuck the damn thing under the collar of his coat. He heard the captain call him to another side of the ship, he pulled away from his lines, sliding gracefully for a few paces before finding his footing and moving to the other side.

One seaman slipped beside him, but rolled back to a stand. Another was being carried below deck by his comrades with a bloody gash across his head. Within an hour he was finding a rhythm amidst the chaos. An hour after that he was calling a few orders to some seamen around him; he was technically a higher ranking officer after all. There was no opportunity for anyone to argue, everyone just wanted to get through this.

They could tell day had broken by the lighter gray tinge of the clouds. The wave surge died off a tad, giving everyone better footing to deal with the wind and rain. Under the howling wind William suddenly heard the sound of men's voices singing in harmony. He shouted out a few more orders and heard it clearer; a group of seamen singing "Silent Night." He smiled at this; even in the middle of hell these hardened sailors were singing, finding the rhythm in their jumping and pulling lines.

He found a hold on one line and joined in the tune, heaving breaths occasionally breaking the song but it remained consistent. The waves rose again, the rain pelted harder, all singing fell off to shouting with the renewed surge. The ship leaned hard starboard, sending William off his feet for a moment and toward the edge. He grabbed a rope at the right time to pull himself upright. A fellow sailor scrambled to avoid the rail, but tumbled right over.

William dropped the rope and fell forward, grabbing the man by the collar of his white shirt, his other hand clasping the rail hard. He looked down, seeing he was holding onto a man more than twice his age screaming for his rescuer to hold on. William positioned his body against the railing to get a better grip. The ship jerked again, the weight yanking his wrist downward, sending a burning ache through his arm that he shrugged off. His other hand caught hold of the seaman and he yanked him up, his wrist on fire but he would not let go. The sailor caught hold of the side of the ship, then scrambled up the side and back over the railing, William pulling him in. The sailor looked at him with wide eyes, nodding his thanks before getting back up and back to the lines. William nodded back, pushing himself off the rail and back to his own position.

He barely noticed the ache in his wrist for the rest of the day; it felt tight, but this was but one more thing to push through. Gradually the seas calmed, the rains backed off, the winds quieted. There was more singing, more laughs. Then the rain stopped in one glorious moment. After a while cheers went up around the ship; it was over, they were all still alive.

It was now 5 o'clock, the storm was safely passed them. Captain Allard rounded them all up by the bridge. No lives were lost, he announced; a few men were injured but would be back on their feet after a few days. The ship sustained moderate damage, but could safely reach Plymouth. The chaplain lead a prayer, thanking God for their good fortunes on this holy Christmas Day. Men were given time to eat Christmas dinner; in this case an extra ration of salted pork and plenty of rum.

By now William's wrist was swollen like a waterskin. He only visited the ship's surgeon after prodding by his fellows; the surgeon wrapped it up and put his arm in a sling. The swelling should go down in a few days, he was told; another annoying trifle. He had just left the surgeon's cabin when he was summoned to the bridge. Captain Allard was there with his three other midshipman, all boys close to William's age; all scrambling around their own sides of the ship all day. William saw some torn uniforms and a few bandages, but hearty smiles. The captain poured four glasses of rum with a tired smile. William snapped to attention and saluted, Captain Allard called him to ease.

"I hope you'll be taking it easy on that wrist, Mr. Spears," the captain said, handing him a glass.

"As easy as it deserves, sir," William replied with a smirk.

Captain Allard snickered, then raised his own glass.

"To a fine group of boys, someday a fine group of captains and admirals," he said. "You should be proud of yourselves, lads."

The boys toasted, then went down for some overdue dinner. William walked below deck and heard the glad sound echoing through the timbers; a large group of men singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," voices hoarse and dimmed with tiredness but joyful. It was one of the greatest sounds he had ever heard.

The sailor he saved, Able Seaman Callaghan, found him the next day and shook his hand for his bravery.

"You're a fine lad, Will, I owe ya a lot," he said in his thick Irish brogue.

They reached the port of Plymouth later that evening, everyone toasted to landfall, to their eventful Christmas, to everything they could think of. William avoided the temptation to imbibe like his fellows. He did accept an extra glass from Mr. Callaghan, but stopped at that.

William was able to return to Exeter for a brief visit, his family greeting him like a returning hero. He saw for his own eyes the origami flowers carefully placed on the tree made from brightly patterned paper. He left a few days later with warm hugs; he still had a duty to fulfill.

William met up with papa in France a few months later. Word of the _Kensington's _Christmas fortune was all through the fleet, as was the story of a gangly young midshipman who rescued a fellow sailor.

"Keep it up, boy," papa said, raising his glass with a grin. "That's the salt that makes lads into legends."

He kept it up indeed. Six years later he passed the lieutenant's exam with flying colors. A few years after that he was taking the helm of his own ship, always remembering Captain Allard's able leadership when working with his own men. Captain Spears was a rough character, but trusted the abilities and perseverance of his own sailors. He also knew a generous Christmas only made them even more loyal. This captain, as hard and unrelenting as he became, was also not above joining his men for some carols on Christmas.

The end of his career in the Royal Navy came with the end of his life, but death presented him with a new opportunity; the Reaper Dispatch Association, a new crew and a new service he would conduct with the same disciplined pride. Though his ambitions were not as high as a sailor, he did rise through his own ranks. He took a new kind of helm, but his subordinates were little different than seamen; a bit less disciplined, often less motivated, but still an able crew.

While working hard hours surrounded by (or rather embodying) death, they too knew how to celebrate their holidays. As he learned as a ship's captain, a generous Christmas makes for greater loyalty, so William always made sure there was holly and food around. When sitting at his desk, he savored the sound of the occasional carol passing through the hallway. Sometimes he would stick his head out the door to join in.


End file.
